Deficient
by Selion
Summary: Danse gets a late-night visitor. Neither of them are very happy about it. (Implied drug use, slightly unclear consent, Danse is a little abusive)


Danse's hand slams down to his knee, wraps around the limb of who or whatever's decided it's a good idea to touch him while hes sleeping. It's pitch black, he's disoriented, scared and fucking mad at being woken up like this. He's ready to rip the thing away, kick it across the room and scramble up to his feet when it speaks.

"H-hey. Paladin. Y'awake?"

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ, John." His hand falls away and he collapses back into bed from where he was already halfway to the rifle leaning against the bedpost. Fear fades out and leaves him hot and prickly, heart going double-time. He closes his eyes again and swallows with a dry mouth. "What the hell are you doing?"

The hand hasn't left and it clutches at him; a shaky, hesitant pressure. Unfamiliar, in a way. Hancock is confident, and this feels like a stranger's hand dithering a hot trail up his leg. It bothers him and he reaches down to grope onto Hancock's shoulders, hold him still. "What are you doing?" he repeats when there's no answer.

Hancock's cheek rubs against his hand and then a wet, slippery tongue slides up the outside of his finger. The way he laughs when Danse jerks sounds unnatural. Quick and jittery like chips of glass. "You're never around anymore, 'n I missed you, man. Just wanted to fool around a little." His voice is a dark blur, melting into itself and _that's_ why he's here. Not for anything as chummy as 'he missed him', that's not it, it's what's in his voice and that high, spidery laugh.

Danse pulls away and reaches for the light amid Hancock's protests.

"Aw, c'mon, don't-" then a sharp hiss as it snaps on, bathing them both in a harsh glow.

"God. Look at you."

He's already pissed off, but it's Hancock's eyes that make it worse. Wide and unfocused, looking at nothing in particular but still clicking from surface to surface. He's often out of it, but this is quite a bit beyond usual levels. If Hancock still had the skin for it it would probably be pale and waxy and covered in a sick glaze of sweat. One bony shoulder peeks through the loose neck of his shirt and Danse wants to grab him again. Dig his fingers in until that dopey look falls off his face. Shake some sobriety into him.

Probably wouldn't work, but it'd make him feel a little better.

He leans up and moves down the bed, kneeling in front of him and so much taller. Hancock takes it the wrong way, reaching out for him and eyes lighting up. His mouth moves strangely around his words. "Y'want to? Just say yes. Lemme suck you off, okay?"

This is just... disgusting. His cock twitches as he easily snares the ghoul's questing hand. Squeezes down hard on it and feels some cheap, ugly satisfaction at the uneasy look that crosses his face and the way he instinctively tries to pull back. "Think you've said yes a few too many times today, haven't you?"

But he leans in and tries again when the pressure lets up, putting the other grasping, shaking hand on the skin of Danse's thigh. Persistent. The muscle jumps under the hot touch and Danse doesn't move to stop him when Hancock's fingers tease under the edge of his shorts. "Too many…? Yeah, maybe, but I got it. Come on, just..." He's whining and blinking up at him. The look on his face is confusing. Dark, hazy lust on the surface covering up something that looks angry and _ashamed._ " _Please,_ okay? Don't be such a fucking asshole."

The fingers creep up to his waistband and he lets them curl around it and pull it down, cloth sliding over his hips, catching over his cock where it's filled out with blood. Fine. This situation isn't unique; he's let Hancock exhaust his urges on him plenty of times. It doesn't make him any less angry about it though. Either of them.

He holds the back of Hancock's head in a crushing grip as he sloppily kisses around the base of his dick and presses his face to the wet skin. Calls him a dirty fucking junkie when he feels the tip of his cock slide against the back of his throat. Claws warningly into his skinny shoulder when his teeth start scraping a little too much. Groans and tells him how pathetic he is as he spills himself into the shameless, eager mouth.

Danse reaches down and catches Hancock's face in his hand, draws him up to his knees so he doesn't look so goddamn small, panting and licking his lips in front of him. It's a little harder to be out and out angry now some of the tension's sluiced out of him. Hancock is still shaky and shivering, but at least his eyes have stopped doing that frantic pinballing around the room, and that's better.

Fingers splay out across leathery cheek and neck where Hancock's heartbeat is a quick staccato. His thumb rubs a small, soft loop over the corner of the ghoul's mouth. He won't kiss him; never does, even when Hancock tries for it. Instead he pulls him down to the bed and rolls him so the bony curve of his back is tight up against Danse's chest. Unlaces Hancock's pants as he shudders under him.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" His question is a lot gentler than his grip; closing his hand around the ghoul's dick in the too-rough grasp he likes.

A short choking noise comes from Hancock's throat, maybe supposed to be a laugh of some kind. "Don't ask. I don't wanna talk. I don't… don't do it to _talk,_ alright." He pushes up into Danse's hand, back arching with the motion and thin ass grinding back into more solid hips.

"Running away from yourself again?"

Yeah, runs from himself and ends up here. It's a strange choice that Danse has never really deeply questioned, just part of the collection of psychoses and idiosyncrasies that make up John Hancock. He gets high, lets his thoughts run away with him, and then needs to be needed. Or at least just needs to be touched by someone. Comes to Danse who maintains this tricky balance of revulsion and hatred and protectiveness for him.

"God, fucking shut up, what did I _just_ say?" He hiccups and sways forward more, body wound tight and crowding up into the sweaty palm that's dragging him down and bringing him closer. Desperate for it.

Danse's lips pull back into a smile. "Fine, sorry." The way he expresses concern always comes off as annoying. He knows it; kind of feels like Hancock deserves it anyway. He twists his hand even harder over the ghoul and breathes against his neck. "Not my business."

"You're right, it's… it's not. Not anyone's fuckin' business," he pants. His hand clamps down on Danse's leg in a tight grip as he comes undone in his arms and moans his name. This isn't new either. It's sad but unsurprising to hear it again from those cracked, miserable lips.

Danse wipes his hand off on the side of the bed. He'll get rid of the mess tomorrow, along with any other trace of Hancock being here. He lets the ghoul push him away and tumble out of his bed; can't resist one more comment as he yanks his pants up and sways unsteadily on his feet. "You're going to hurt yourself if you keep this up." It might sound like he's talking about the drugs but that's actually only part of it. He wonders if Hancock is back to normal enough to really hear what he's saying.

"Fuck you, paladin." Hancock doesn't turn to look at him.

Maybe he does hear it. Either way, he's quickly gone. Not quite as sudden as his arrival, but there's no further talking or making not-so-subtle digs for affection from him. Once the ghoul is done, he's done; doesn't want the closeness anymore, which is fine by Danse. He winces at the way Hancock lets the door slam shut and slowly relaxes again. Turns off the light. Sinks into the mattress, for now still warm with the body heat of two people. Throws an arm limply over his eyes and falls back asleep alone. The way it should be.


End file.
